@f6e
The stone of the statue’s base is cold to the touch, the chill of night still on it. A bold brass plaque adorns each side, and Zaydin reads them in the shadows of the warring gods:
“We lost the day at Issin See – Our friends, they march no more – We carry back their coffins, now – Where once we marched to war”
Beneath each line of a poem is a date, one after the other – 6.1.10793, 6.2.10793, 6.3.10793, 6.4.10793 – and beneath each date, a list of names. Dozens and dozens of them, carved into the metal… In some places, the tarnish has been worn off the metal until it shines like gold, as if from fingers running over the metal.
A bouquet of once-white flowers rests atop the statue’s base, almost beneath the foot of the stamping Kirin. They are withered and brown.
Pyre watches Laakiim for a little bit as the bartender goes over to serve Atropos. When she hops up to the bar, Laakiim looms over her and huffs, “Shoo.”
With a frightened yelp, Pyre flees out the door to Zaydin’s side. She whimpers in fright, hackles up, head ducked low. It takes a few minutes for her to calm, and she seems hesitant to return to the bar, although she will obey Zaydin if he does.
@RoseyVaporeon
Atropos settles at the bar and squawks out his order. Laakiim is brisk about getting it, sliding down a bowl of crisp bread toasties as well. The ale is vaguely fruity, probably a northern brew of some kind, and very dry, with a thick head of pale foam. She shoos the dog – you don’t remember hearing it’s name – away from the counter, and it fair bolts from the tavern, chasing after it’s master.
“So, you’re just passing through, I assume?” Laakiim asks the hooded figure. “Lots of good spots for your type in the city.”
She taps the side of her nose, as if indicating the raven’s beak.
“There’s a couple of places popular with beastmen around these parts.”
@Forelle
Seven reaches the bakery without issue, the streets still empty enough that he can move without difficulty through the city. Reaching the docks again, he can see that things are still a little crowded – a woman in charcoal-and-green robes, the city’s colors, is keeping people away from the Myrqab’s Daughter, but two other boats have docked and are offloading passengers and cargo.
The bakery has several patrons waiting for their bread, and a few tables scattered around by the windows. A group of five or six guards, and another mage, are sitting there, armor glinting in the sunlight through the windows, and at the head of the table, Lord Liir is entertaining them with some kind of story as they dig into fresh, slightly steaming loaves of bread slathered in butter, honey, cheese and jam. The attitude amongst the men seems to be jovial, and they seem in good humor as Seven waits to be served – one of the men slaps Liir on the shoulder as he finishes his tale, and the whole group breaks into laughter.
Seven reaches the counter seemingly without attracting the notice of the group, and, breakfast in hand, there are several places he might sit at the bakery: on the narrow ledge by the other window, where he’d be out of sight of the guardsmen, outside on the curb, where there’s a small bench, or at one of the tables occupied by the guards – there are several seats free, with no indication of anyone sitting in them.
@Mistwing608
The tray on the table is well-picked – only a rind of cheese and the heel of a loaf of bread are left. Foam is fresh, dripping down the inside of the glass to pool at the bottom. Eleneth take her seat, pulling out a second chair, and her foot knocks against something. In the distraction as Zaydin’s wolf bolts out of the tavern, Eleneth manages to scoop it into her lap unnoticed.
It’s a letter, slightly thick, with what feels like a few sheets of parchment inside. A ribbon is wrapped around the main body of the letter, with a thin wax seal holding it, and the envelope, closed.
The stone of the statue’s base is cold to the touch, the chill of night still on it. A bold brass plaque adorns each side, and Zaydin reads them in the shadows of the warring gods:
“We lost the day at Issin See – Our friends, they march no more – We carry back their coffins, now – Where once we marched to war”
Beneath each line of a poem is a date, one after the other – 6.1.10793, 6.2.10793, 6.3.10793, 6.4.10793 – and beneath each date, a list of names. Dozens and dozens of them, carved into the metal… In some places, the tarnish has been worn off the metal until it shines like gold, as if from fingers running over the metal.
A bouquet of once-white flowers rests atop the statue’s base, almost beneath the foot of the stamping Kirin. They are withered and brown.
Pyre watches Laakiim for a little bit as the bartender goes over to serve Atropos. When she hops up to the bar, Laakiim looms over her and huffs, “Shoo.”
With a frightened yelp, Pyre flees out the door to Zaydin’s side. She whimpers in fright, hackles up, head ducked low. It takes a few minutes for her to calm, and she seems hesitant to return to the bar, although she will obey Zaydin if he does.
@RoseyVaporeon
Atropos settles at the bar and squawks out his order. Laakiim is brisk about getting it, sliding down a bowl of crisp bread toasties as well. The ale is vaguely fruity, probably a northern brew of some kind, and very dry, with a thick head of pale foam. She shoos the dog – you don’t remember hearing it’s name – away from the counter, and it fair bolts from the tavern, chasing after it’s master.
“So, you’re just passing through, I assume?” Laakiim asks the hooded figure. “Lots of good spots for your type in the city.”
She taps the side of her nose, as if indicating the raven’s beak.
“There’s a couple of places popular with beastmen around these parts.”
@Forelle
Seven reaches the bakery without issue, the streets still empty enough that he can move without difficulty through the city. Reaching the docks again, he can see that things are still a little crowded – a woman in charcoal-and-green robes, the city’s colors, is keeping people away from the Myrqab’s Daughter, but two other boats have docked and are offloading passengers and cargo.
The bakery has several patrons waiting for their bread, and a few tables scattered around by the windows. A group of five or six guards, and another mage, are sitting there, armor glinting in the sunlight through the windows, and at the head of the table, Lord Liir is entertaining them with some kind of story as they dig into fresh, slightly steaming loaves of bread slathered in butter, honey, cheese and jam. The attitude amongst the men seems to be jovial, and they seem in good humor as Seven waits to be served – one of the men slaps Liir on the shoulder as he finishes his tale, and the whole group breaks into laughter.
Seven reaches the counter seemingly without attracting the notice of the group, and, breakfast in hand, there are several places he might sit at the bakery: on the narrow ledge by the other window, where he’d be out of sight of the guardsmen, outside on the curb, where there’s a small bench, or at one of the tables occupied by the guards – there are several seats free, with no indication of anyone sitting in them.
@Mistwing608
The tray on the table is well-picked – only a rind of cheese and the heel of a loaf of bread are left. Foam is fresh, dripping down the inside of the glass to pool at the bottom. Eleneth take her seat, pulling out a second chair, and her foot knocks against something. In the distraction as Zaydin’s wolf bolts out of the tavern, Eleneth manages to scoop it into her lap unnoticed.
It’s a letter, slightly thick, with what feels like a few sheets of parchment inside. A ribbon is wrapped around the main body of the letter, with a thin wax seal holding it, and the envelope, closed.
